


May Death Find You Alive

by Dracones95



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mental Instability, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Religious Fanaticism, Suicide, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 00:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17213510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones95/pseuds/Dracones95
Summary: Various stages of the Hunter's encounters with Alfred, each driving more and more into madness.





	May Death Find You Alive

**Author's Note:**

> One time I got very drunk and decided to write Bloodborne fiction.  
> English is not my native language; constructive criticism about my grammar/word order/sentence flow/whatever is welcome.  
> Cheers!

I sense smoke and smell the blood in the distance as I exit the church, encouraged by the words of that twisted thing I have not expected to find friendly. There is a rush in my step that I cannot explain, driven by some unknown force to just push forward, no matter what. The air is thick and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand; the disturbing sensation that something is watching me follows me outside, through the church doors. I have not felt fear in a while, and if I felt it, I am sure I would not recognize it, as foreign but empowering blood flows through my veins. Apart from a bell wailing somewhere I could not see, there is nothing that can concern me now; my steps echo on the granite steps, inviting the beasts to feast. Undeterred from my task. 

The rabid dog is suddenly inches away from my feet, growling deep in his throat despite his long tongue hanging from a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, and there is a gun cocking; when I am done, his warm blood stains my face like war paint, proud. I chuckle as I yank the axe out of his lifeless body, wiping it on the side of my coat with a long stride. I step over the cadaver, stench following me along the old buildings. This place, decrepit as it is, is still impressive in its sheer magnitude, intricate weave of stone worth spending hours to stare at and decipher. 

The hall is empty, all tall walls stretching towards the skies. I look up to stare at it for the first time I have set foot in this cursed town; it is a warm canvas above my head, sun almost dying but still holding on to its last shred of life. Ominous, it plunges towards the horizon line, threatening of dark times to come. That is when I realize my previous assumption was wrong.

An altar to my right hosts a kneeling presence, gently whispering into his sword; I hesitate, but drawn by the locks of hair gold as the dying sun I go his way.

Hunter of Vilebloods, he presents himself, smiling wide and radiant, standing as tall as his bones allowed him. Proud of his garb and his deadly wheel. I allow him to enlighten me with his tales, smooth voice rocking me into those restless dreams; and I dream of the old town, tall spires, beasts with talons dripping with poison and a man with a cutting, cold and harsh voice and lead that fills my chest over and over again, sending me back in agonizing pain. 

* * *

 "This place is filled with misery and it seems I am only here to witness it." I spew out of nowhere, while resting my tired head on the cold altar. I felt like I could cry, bathe the stone with my tears and cleanse it, but I refrain myself. Weakness is the last thing I would want to show, even in front of him. His eyes lower, listening to my words with a hint of pain. "I have met a priest from a foreign land and he transformed in front of me. The woman at the altar, she transformed in front of me." I continue, voice breaking in a way I was ashamed of. He says nothing, speechless for an unusual amount of time. "I had to murder them in cold blood. Tell me I have done the right thing." It was unusual for me to break, but it felt overdue, even though shame grew in my chest. A hunter of beasts, I call myself. What a disappointment.

My flesh burns as he touches me for the first time and I lose train of my thoughts almost instantly, worries forgotten and replaced by sweet numbness. The blood that rushes through my veins heats and pools in the pits of my stomach, treacherous. He looks understanding and I am having a hard time telling whether it is genuine or not.

"I would have done the same," he says, eyes suddenly lost in thought, or perhaps memories. The way the green of his eyes darken tells me he has done worse, but that does not comfort me; what could be worse, than end the life of a man so gone he does not know why. "Corruption is all the same."

But the man in the tower would disagree. Forgive them father for they know not what they do, I whisper to myself as I lay in his embrace that night, willing to throw it all away. 

I see him again on the steps of the spiraling stairs leading into the cursed forest; I come back, over and over; he waits and I want him to suck the venom out of my wounds and heal me with his steel, but I say nothing, looking at his suddenly blank face. I don't notice the way his eyes droop, mad with blood, for I was mad myself. 

* * *

 "I have seen what your kind has done," My voice is less harsh than I want, my face less angry. Killed men in front of their wives, then bound their delicate hands, blinded them and forced them to wail for an eternity and haunt my dreams for hours on end. The castle was desolate, empty save for anguish and blood-stained books. He feels no remorse, I know it; he is justified in the eyes of his martyr and nothing else matters. I want to wail like they do for their men, only I cry for my freedom. Wretched men; I want to hurl the insult right in his face but I refrain myself, though I resent him and all he stands for. I shake my head instead and avoid his touch when he yearns for it; it leaves him cold, uninterested and I feel alone in the world again. Just me and the nightmare spiders hanging from the church. If pride allowed me, I would beg them to take my head off my shoulders, if I knew it wouldn't bring me back in front of him again.

The corpse of his master was still gushing with blood when I, despite myself, present him the summons, planting the murderous gleam in his eyes. Ecstatic and maniacal, the best words I can find to describe the shaking in his hands and the grin on his face, snatching them from my fingers. For the first time I feel like I cannot get through to him, his intoxication beyond any help; I shake that feeling aside to bring my hand to his face, cold skin sticking to mine. I let him go, reluctant, unaware of the monster I have awaken. Why I could not stay away, I cannot explain to myself; perhaps I was too drunk on the woman of pleasure's sweet, intoxicating blood. Perhaps I was too drunk on his scent alone and I wanted to see him fulfilled, seeking a validation I could do without. 

When I return to the throne room, the sight knocks the air out of my lungs like I've been bashed in the chest with a brick; he is blabbering to his master, dead outside the door, corpse already entering putrefaction with how corrupted he was, his crown of vile illusions resting on my very head. I took that. He died by my steel, I want to shout to him, but I fear he already knows, and cares not. His goal was already met and he needed me no more. The flesh of the immortal queen clings to its throne, pulsating with miserable life. I am scared to look at him, a monument of madness, cackling loudly. Oh fear, how I missed you.

I dare approach him. "Thanks to you, I have done it." He sees me and I'm surprised he recognizes my face. He's covered in blood from head to toe and I am thankful for his helmet. I do not wish to see his face. I do not wish to see him. 

* * *

But I do.

I do not find him at the forest entrance, though I pace the stairs up and down until my legs cry in pain, waiting for him to come to his senses. He will not, an incessant voice in my head tries to sway me, but I smother it violently like I did a baby in its cradle. 

The altar is just as quiet. save for one thing; he lies there in a heap, still breathing, tired but victorious; I am sickened by the fact that I awarded him this victory. I saw there a face he managed to hide from me; a full fledged psychopath right in front of my eyes. A beast not unlike the ones I slew that night, over and over and over again, each time escaping my vigilance. The routine makes me tired, and the fact I let him get away, furious.

He senses me and roars back to life, jubilating. He circles me like a predator, breathing heavily with exhaust, and something else. 

"You made it happen," The words stab me in my throat; I know it but I wish not hear it anymore. Not from his mouth, not from anyone else's.

"I know," I say, hitting my back on the stone of the altar. He's in front of me, closing the gap step by step. "And I regret it." He smirks, unpleasant, untying his cape with a swift motion and letting it cradle the floor below.

"You'll have an eternity to do so." He says, almost hissing at me like a huge, golden cat with angry talons and fangs ready to sink into fresh meat. I tense out of instinct; I see beast inside his eyes once more, if I needed more confirmation that he was beyond anything I could do. Anything but kill. The axe rests at my hip, my fingers twitching to grip it; I squelch my desire to sink it into his neck although his blood raining down my face was a thought that gave me immense pleasure. He's gone but not enough to not notice the look in my eyes and the small movements of my muscles.

"Give it to me." He orders in a stern voice that I haven't heard before, sending a shiver down my spine. His steel is on my skin in a second, the tip of his sword biting into the flesh under my chin. It's cold, unforgiving, and he pushes further to strengthen his words. I succumb and he takes it away from me, tossing it aside so I can't reach. The sword gets the same treatment, as soon as he renders me almost unable to defend myself. I try to push but he's a rock in my path, one I cannot simply smash and move along. 

He aches for skin on bare skin, ripping at the trousers with an animalistic growl; he's feverish, demented, biting at me to get a taste of what I hide inside, tearing me apart. I feel responsible, deserving of what happens. He was knee-deep into his madness the moment I saw him, and I only allowed it grow and swallow him. I groomed him into an animal for slaughter, feeding his dementia only to justify myself when I rip his throat out. Or did I? My own intentions are murky inside my head. 

He moves inside harshly, tearing apart everything in his path with an eagerness that tells me he's been waiting for this for a long time. How long? How many cycles? How long had he ached to take what he thought was rightfully his. My mind cannot wrap around his misery, nor his can around my despair; I wanted none of this. He grunts, hunger finally satisfied and I am selfish for once. What about what I want? Though in this haze, I know not what I want. I wish he'd stop, that's all that crosses my mind. My back hurts where it slams into the unforgiving stone in a spastic rhythm, and pray it's enough to send him over the edge, and off me.

It was, and when he slumps heavy against me, he's spent, ready to let go, giggling in my ear and thanking me oh so graciously for fulfilling his desires; blood has spurted from cut throats and bathed me in their pungent scent, but I have never felt as dirty as I was feeling now, under his burning body.  
  
I awaken to his stiffening corpse next to me, releasing me from his nightmare. 


End file.
